


What Words Just Can't Convey

by LesMisgayrables



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AND I RESEARCHED FOR THIS, C/C are rly cute, Dancing, M/M, Piningjolras, and enjolras doesn't know how to dance, based on a prompt, courf and ferre are getting married, lotS OF WALTZING, so obvs grantaire must teach him, this is unnecessarily long, waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesMisgayrables/pseuds/LesMisgayrables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre are getting married in two months, and Enjolras admits he can't dance. The Amis appoint Grantaire as his waltz instructor, and Enjolras starts to see him in a different light (and pines). He also discovers he actually likes waltz.<br/>(I know best men don't need to know how to dance, but that's my excuse for getting him to dance)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skimming the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is based on this prompt: http://gtaire.tumblr.com/post/54520785430/grantaire-teaching-a-very-flustered-enjolras-how  
> I really hope you like this fucker, because I investigated and researched waltzing for four days. I'm shit at dancing; I have two left feet, so I do apologize for the inevitable inaccuracies (more like *everything*).
> 
> And also, I totally know the best man does NOT need to dance at weddings, but I needed an excuse to make Enjolras dance. You know how it goes.  
> Chapter title comes from Dancing Through Life, from Wicked, and story title comes from Big Freeze, by Muse (I'm bad at choosing titles). I listened to Vito's Waltz (The Godfather) while writing this.

 

 “What did you say? I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Courfeyrac stops pressing the suit to his torso before he twirls to face Enjolras. “How do I look?”

“Um, great, yeah. Dashing.”

“Do you think this looks better than that D&G one? I think the sleeves are too wide…”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Well, the sleeves can be fixed…” Courf hums and Enjolras watches from his place in the elegant chair. Courfeyrac has been trying on suits for over two hours now. Jehan was supposed to pick them up any minute now so they could make it to the Musain on time. “Enjolras, I need you to be completely honest with me right now.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“How does my ass look? I mean, does it look better in these trousers, or in the other ones?” the hallway is silent. “Enjolras?”

“Seriously, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras sighs and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, um, it looks nice. I can’t dance.”

“What?”

“That the trousers look fine.”

“Nonononono;” says Courfeyrac incredulously, “what do you mean you can’t dance?”

“Although, I do think the Dolce & Gabbana ones looked slimmer. Isn’t that what’s ‘in’ on suits lately?”

“Enjolras…”

“I… don’t know how to dance? I’m sorry?”

“And you didn’t bother taking lessons?”

“You know I have no time.”

“Then you should have told me that before you accepted your post as best man,” Courfeyrac said accusingly.

“I know; I should’ve told you sooner, but –”

“The wedding’s in less than two months, Enjolras!”

“I’m sure that’s time enough to learn some basi –”

 “Basics? You want to know the _basics_ for _my wedding?_ ”

“Courf, it’s not like I –”

“Like you want to look like circus elephant? Because that’s the message I’m getting here.” Enjolras opened his mouth, but Courfeyrac didn’t let him even peep before continuing. “We’re supposed to be your best friends. You’re supposed to want us to be happy. How are we supposed to be happy when one of the best men can’t dance?” he spins on his heels and presses his palms to his eyes as he talks. “Shit, this is a disaster –”

“Besides, it’s not like dancing is my principal duty as a groomsman.”

“No, yes. It is,” he turns to the blond again. “It is because you’re the best man, not a simple, common groomsman, Enjolras. They’re supposed to dance with everybody while the groom and other groom are too busy with each other.”

“I know; that can be easily fixed. I’m sure Jehan –”

“You’re the ambassador of the wedded couple, the representing party,” Courfeyrac flushes in annoyance. “You’re supposed to look graceful and godlike, and like you’re enjoying the party, and you won’t look like you’re enjoying yourself at all, not only because you simply don’t know how to enjoy yourself at a party – no offense, but also because you won’t be dancing.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” says Enjolras. “Stop being so melodramatic. I’m not even _your_ best man; I’m Combeferre’s, and I’m sure Combeferre won’t mind that I can’t dance.”

It looked like Courfeyrac was about to shout at him, but then the man of the hour opened the door and walked into the suit store, with Combeferre in tow. Courf swore and hastened to hide behind the row of suits he’d tried on.

“’Ferre, don’t look. Close your eyes. Don’t even look in this direction. Jehan, make sure he doesn’t see!”

“Relax, love. I’m not looking,” smiles Combeferre.

“Why can’t he look?” Enjolras asks, bemused.

“The groom isn’t supposed to see the gown until the wedding,” explains Jehan while browsing through the brunet’s selection, and then gasping dramatically. “Courfeyrac, did you try this one on?”

“But this isn’t a dress…”

Courf raises his head so that it’s visible over the suits, looks at the item in question and beams. “I did! Isn’t it great? It looks brilliant. That’s the one, Jehan; _the_ one.”

“Oh, Courf,” Jehan coos dreamily and babbles on. Enjolras walks over to Combeferre, who is pointedly browsing through a magazine, looking opposite to where the other two are, and blushing slightly.

“Hey,” Enjolras greets. “You got here just on time. You saved me.”

“From?”

“Oh, you know, Courfeyrac’s antics.”

Combeferre smiles. “So how’d it go?”

“I couldn’t tell the difference between any of them, to be honest,” Enjolras admits. Combeferre laughs and picks up another random magazine from the coffee table. “He’s chosen one, though, if their conversation is anything to go by,” he motions at Jehan and what’s visible of Courf’s head. “And you’re blushing.” This comment makes Combeferre blush harder. Enjolras waits for him to say something, but nothing comes.

He’s driven out of his reverie by a particularly loud giggle – he couldn’t tell from whom it came from, which was alarming. “Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, hurry up!” he called.

 

 

Twenty-five minutes later saw them walking into the Musain, where most of their friends were already waiting for them. They greet everyone and sit down in their usual places. As everyone starts going back to their chatter, Combeferre takes Courfeyrac’s right hand in his left under the table, which was answered by his fiancé with a squeeze of hands, nosing to the left side of his face, and a little kiss on the cheek. They both smile privately. Meanwhile, Enjolras tries his best to avert his gaze, looking at the door and incidentally spotting an arriving Grantaire before anyone else. Disconcerted as he was by doing his best at not looking, he called the newcomer’s name loudly.

He raises an eyebrow. “Afternoon, Enjolras,” he walks in sits on his usual place slowly. “If you’re opening to a discourse on how it’s my fault that you had to spend hours with Courf’s most narcissistic side,” a chuckle from the man himself, “you’ll have to make an appointment. I’m rather exhausted right now.”

“You made it,” grins Courf. “Man, you’re not getting out of this that easily. You’re going to come with me tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“You’re going to be the final vote. Enjolras is shite at best manning.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least,” Grantaire smirks. Enjolras didn’t even have it in him to be offended. “Really, though. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, it’s just that –”

“Don’t worry, R; I know this competition was important to you. Being my best man doesn’t mean you have to give up on your personal life.”

“Thanks, man,” Grantaire raises an invisible glass to him. Enjolras observed him closely. The man looked exhausted, indeed, but not mentally or even physically; it was more of a relaxed kind of exhausted, like the one you felt after accomplishing something that took a lot of work. After weeks of looking at him closely (for whatever reason as unknown to him as could be), he could tell when Grantaire was tired, spent, or just having a bad day. “I’ll gladly be your best man tomorrow, after a good night’s rest.”

“Speaking of best men;” says Courfeyrac loudly, getting the attention of everybody else, “Enjolras is a shit and just today, he told me he can’t dance. My wedding is ruined.”

“Has anyone seen Marius?” says Enjolras loudly, trying to divert the conversation. Only Joly takes the bait.

“He had a date wi –”

“Enjolras, you’re the best man,” says Bahorel. “You must know how to dance.”

“Grantaire is the best man, too; surely he can make up for it,” he suggests; it’s met with blank stares. Grantaire laughs.

“I am aghast! Apollo, our fearless leader, who will jump to dangerous situations in no time, can’t dance?” Enjolras blushes. “And he’s obligated to dance. This is better than a soap opera.”

“Just take some lessons,” shrugs Bossuet.

“Yeah,” agrees Feuilly. “Actually, the workshop I used to work in had a really good view to the Zumba room in the gym.”

“I am not going to Zumba,” Enjolras deadpans.

“I have to agree,” Bossuet says, “they might actually do you some good.”

“Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of exercise,” adds Joly. “You know, it’s really important to exercise at this point in your life. I was reading the other day that –”

“I am not going to Zumba,” insists Enjolras.

“Who said what about Zumba what?” Éponine said from the door. “Sorry, I got hung up at work,” the Amis greeted her. “So, what’d I miss?”

“My best man doesn’t know how to dance,” says Combeferre. Enjolras looks at him, betrayed. The other man shrugs. “You _are_ supposed to dance at your best friends’ wedding.”

“I love you,” Courfeyrac says, climbing atop his partner’s lap. Combeferre accepts this gracefully.

“Aw, you two don’t get any less adorable with time,” speaks Jehan.

“So Enjolras can’t dance and absolutely nobody is surprised,” repeats Éponine before she drops down on the seat next to the cynic. “Grantaire can dance,” she says as she rolls back her shoulders, which pop loudly. Joly flinches. Jehan looks up from his poetry book and to Enjolras, who observes his surroundings silently.

“That’s right. R knows how to dance,” he looks at his friend, and Grantaire seems to realize what his friends are getting at, if his expression is an indicator.

“No,” he says hurriedly. This strikes Enjolras as weird. He’s rarely seen Grantaire panicky. Then he plays back what Éponine said and blinks in shock.

“Yeah… you took ballet for twelve years, didn’t you?” says Jehan.

“And learned how to waltz for Azelma’s Sweet Sixteen,” adds Éponine.

“Nope, no,” Grantaire holds his hands towards both his friends, placating. “No-uh.”

“Waltz? I didn’t know that one,” Jehan comments curiously and the girl grins.

“Yes, Azelma wanted one of those grand parties with a waltz and a court, and Grantaire was her partner. He danced beautifully, actually.”

“You dance?” Enjolras manages to ask, incredulous. The image of Grantaire dancing with Azelma pops into his mind, uninvited, and his curiosity grows.

“He could teach you how to dance!” says Jehan merrily.

“My best man is better than yours,” Courfeyrac teases Combeferre, and the man smiles and looks at Enjolras with a funny look on his face.

“I think it’d be great,” he agrees. Enjolras can’t find his words.

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” speaks Grantaire, “hold on –”

“I’m in favor of this being implemented,” says Bossuet. Bahorel stands up, grinning.

“Those in favor of designating Grantaire as Enjolras’ dancing instructor…”

“What? No, wait,” hastens Enjolras, looking from one side to the other.

“… For the benefit of the wedding of our friends Combeferre and Courfeyrac…”

“Hey! What if Grantaire doesn’t want to teach Enjolras how to dance?” the dancer implores. “Aren’t you going to take my voice into account? What happened to democracy?”

“… And for a better execution of Enjolras’ duties as best man…”

“This _is_ democracy, R,” smirks Bossuet. “The word you’re looking for is ‘consensus’.”

“Fuck you and your dramatic pauses, Bahorel!”

“… Say aye.”

“ _Aye_ ,” a synchronized group vote.

“Those opposed, say no.”

“No,” Enjolras said, albeit a bit dazedly, not really following what was happening.

“No!” Grantaire exclaimed, arms raised in exasperation.

“That’s seven of us and two of you,” noted Joly, smiling wickedly. “Whoops.”

“The motion has passed.”

“Go to hell, Bahorel.”

“See ya around, then, R.”

“I’m not taking dancing classes from Grantaire,” Enjolras says quickly.

“I am not giving Apollo dancing classes,” Grantaire agrees.

“I am not marrying Combeferre until he has a decent best man.”

“I have some leotards that will fit you, Enjolras!”

“No, Jehan; I am not wearing leotards for this.”

Their friends organize a schedule for Tuesdays, Fridays (much to Grantaire’s despair) and Sundays.

 

 

Enjolras’ History class is over just as Grantaire’s Art History Professor lets them out. They meet at the main courtyard at four in the afternoon and silently head to the parking lot. Grantaire’s hands fidget with his sleeves as they walk. Enjolras glances curiously at his friend every once in a while, wanting to talk to him, but unwilling to initiate the conversation. But you know what they say: until you try, you’ll never know.

“How was class?” _Well, that was stupid_ , he mentally facepalms as Grantaire looks at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Fine.”

Right. “Right.” Both decide that silence is less uncomfortable than an attempt at a conversation. Grantaire keeps doubting, though…

“This is stupid,” he stops walking and Enjolras halts and turns to him. A student bumps into him and scowls. “Are we really going to do this? Are you willing to spend time with me? Because I know you don’t really like me, and trust and willingness is really important here.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire in his baggy jeans and grey hoodie, at his unruly black curls that look like dramatic brush strokes, which, Enjolras thinks, fit the man so well; he looks at the tight lips, at his eyes, which shift and move with nervousness, possibly reluctance; he looks at the way his stained hands – because Grantaire’s hands will always be stained, regardless of when the last time he painted was – won’t stop moving, and he wonders how the man can think that he doesn’t like him. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

Grantaire snorts with his whole body. Enjolras doesn’t know many people who express themselves so openly. It only fits that one of those people should be both an artist and a dancer. “Come on then, Apollo,” he says and starts walking again. Enjolras follows.

“You know, I don’t really like it when you call me that.”

“Tough.”

They stay silent after that, but this time, the silence is more comfortable. Not enjoyable, exactly, but still comfortable. Grantaire takes out his keys when they get close to the car and holds open Enjolras’ door for him. The blond looks at him in question and he responds with a shrug. “Old habits die hard.” He gets in and turns on the car. Immediately after, Frank Sinatra fills the air and Grantaire struggles to turn it off, flushing bright red. “Well, shit, that was embarrassing.”

Enjolras is trying very hard not to laugh, but lets out a small chuckle. “‘New York, New York’, really?”

“Stop.”

Now he stops trying and outright laughs. Grantaire tries glaring at him, but the effect is ruined by his heavy blush. “I hadn’t pegged you as a Frank Sinatra fan.”

“What had you pegged me as?”

“I don’t know, I guess Rock, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“What kind of Rock? Metal, Trash, Punk, Alternative…?”

“I don’t the difference between those.”

“Just as you can’t tell the difference between two different suits,” Grantaire grins. Enjolras looks at him. “Courfeyrac told me about your grand contribution to his suit-picking.”

“So you went with him today?”

“Yeah, to see the thing and buy it,” Grantaire took a left turn. “His rear looks delectable. Combeferre is a lucky man.”

“Is he?”

“Well, he’s marrying a funny, responsible, romantic, smart, hot young man with a nice ass and impressive stamina in bed,” Enjolras just stares at him, “what else could he possibly want?”

“Well…” _I can’t believe I’m having this conversation_ , he thinks, “you can’t know for sure about his, ah, behind. Maybe he just buys good clothes.”

“He _has_ a nice ass, though. I’ve experienced the Courf Ass experience firsthand.”

“Oh. Right. That is not something I needed to know.”

“You practically asked for it.”

“I did not. You assumed.”

“I’ve also experienced his stamina firsthand.”

Enjolras says nothing, growing pricklier by the second. He briefly glances at the rear mirror and sees that Grantaire is barely containing himself. Enjolras flushes.

“You weren’t serious,” he states.

“Oh, no, I was; that’s all true,” he laughs, “but your face is hilarious. You pinch your nose and I don’t know if it’s in disgust or annoyance, but it’s priceless.”

“It’s just that I don’t usually think about Courfeyrac doing anything sexual.”

Grantaire turns to him for a second with an inquisitive look. “Dude, Courfeyrac is always doing something sexual. Are we talking about the same Courfeyrac?”

“I know he’s the most –”

“Like, I don’t know about you, but I constantly regret living with Courfeyrac. Sometimes I’ll come home and I swear, the _noise coming out of his bedroom_ –”

“Oh, my god, stop. Combeferre – oh, my _god_. No.”

“So they never go over to yours? I guess they know which roommate has a higher level of tolerance, then,” Grantaire laughs joyously, and if Enjolras wasn’t so disturbed at the moment, he might’ve had the head to pay attention to it. He rarely heard Grantaire like that. “You do at least acknowledge that Combeferre has a really vast sexual life, right? And all of Les Amis? Because pretending they’re all as prudish as you is not healthy.”

“I’m not prudish!”

“No?”

“I just don’t constantly think about my friends’ sexual lives; unlike you, apparently.”

“No, I don’t think about their sexual lives all the time, I’m just aware that they’re there. Even Marius has sex, like…” he shakes his head in amazement as he takes another left turn. “Plus, you can’t just ignore it when it gets constantly shoved in your face – scratch that: ears…”

“We’re here!” Enjolras gets out of the car quickly and looks around. He’d never been to Grantaire’s before, so he’s surprised to see that the area he lives in isn’t at all like he imagined – and then promptly admonishes himself for having such expectations.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras over his shoulder cautiously as he opened the door to the apartment complex. “You coming in?”

Enjolras is quick to obey. Grantaire closes the door behind him. The cream-colored walls and light wooden flooring gave the room a light, airy feel. There were comfortable-looking couches and colorful mats strewn around; there were numerous ceiling fans and several paintings decorating the walls. The big window on the back gave view to a neat garden, where sparse chairs were available for use. All in all, the place was nice and homey.

“This is nice,” Enjolras voiced out loud, not being completely able to hide the surprise he felt. Grantaire took it swimmingly.

“Yeah, thanks,” he smiled and guided Enjolras to the elevators. They get in and Grantaire presses number four.

“Why hadn’t I been here before? This looks like a great place to hold meetings.”

“Because you had no reason to come before, maybe?”

“Courfeyrac lives here, too,” reasons Enjolras. “Now that I think about it, I didn’t even know where he lived. He always just… comes over.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Grantaire laughs. “When he and Marius lived together, I didn’t know where he lived, either. He’d just come over to mine all the time. I think he moved in with me way before we got this deal; moving here just made it official.”

“And what are you gonna do, now that Courf and ‘Ferre are looking for a place of their own?” Enjolras looks at Grantaire, who smiles sadly.

“I’m not sure.”

The doors open. Enjolras closely trails behind Grantaire until he stops in front of apartment 409, and suddenly, neither of them feels as comfortable as they were not a minute ago. Grantaire hesitates, keys in hand, before turning to Enjolras.

“Listen, it’s just a wedding, you don’t need to know all that much about dancing. If you want to, we can just watch YouTube videos on it and get it over with.”

“I’m fine with this if you’re fine with this,” Enjolras shrugs. Grantaire studies him for a moment before his shoulders slouch and he turns around to open the door. This time, he doesn’t verbally invite Enjolras in, and just leaves the door open for him. Enjolras closes the door softly and looks at his friend, who is moving a couch out of the way. He walks over and helps with the sofa.

“What do you even dance at weddings?” Enjolras blurts out. Grantaire looks at him amusedly.

“I’m just gonna help you with some basic waltzing, so you can dance with the old ladies appropriately.”

“Old ladies?”

“You know, old ladies who think you’re hot and go to you. And cougars. And gay relatives, and possibly young girls who totally want to have sex with you,” shrugs.

“I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen,” Enjolras says alarmed.

“Okay,” Grantaire claps once and perches himself on the center of the square they cleared up. “So there’s the box –”

“The box?”

“The box step, which is the most basic, easiest step I’ve ever learned, so I’m sure you’ll manage,” he drags the blond, who is staring at him blankly, to his right. “Okay, remember waltzes are in ¾, so, in your head, just count _one_ , two, three; _one_ , two, three; _one_ , two, three. Rhythmically. Please tell me you have rhythm.”

“I guess.”

“That’s a relief,” he rolls his eyes. “So you start with your feet closed. Now, on ‘one’, you’re going to move your left foot forward,” he does so, and Enjolras follows. “Good, now try to make it smoother. Ease into it, or you’ll step on your partner. You know what? We’ll take care of that later; you can start by memorizing the thing. Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“No, it’s alright,” Enjolras says and repeats the motion. “So, will there be no music for this? Because I feel stupid.”

“Music? What do you want music for? You need to learn the steps first,” Grantaire raised his left eyebrow. “What kind of music were you thinking of?”

“I don’t know, The Blue Danube?” he shrugs. Grantaire laughs loudly. “Waltzes. I don’t know. Stop laughing.”

“No way, oh, my god,” he keeps laughing. “Enjolras, you’re not gonna dance to that kind of music. Plus, that’s way too fast for you, and not the kind of waltz I’m trying to get you to learn.”

“Okay, then. Whatever,” Enjolras blushes. “So what goes after left foot forward?”

Grantaire snorts out one last laugh and watches as Enjolras’ face colors more heavily. “Sorry, okay, I’m done,” he giggles and takes a deep breath. “Okay, on ‘two’, your right foot will slide forward and inwards, and then divert to the right,” he demonstrates. The other man nods and imitates the movement. “And for ‘three’, your left foot joins your right.”

“That isn’t so hard,” Enjolras notes.

“It isn’t,” smiles Grantaire. “Do you want to try it from the beginning?”

“Yeah…”

So Grantaire starts again and counts as he moves his feet; Enjolras follows.

“One: left foot forward. Two: right foot inwards and to the right. Three: left joins right.” They repeat the pattern a few times until Enjolras can do it fluently. “Awesome. Now we just repeat the pattern backwards; that’s the second half of the box.”

“What?”

“On ‘one’, your right foot goes backwards. On ‘two’, your left –”

“My left foot goes backwards and to the left, and on ‘three’, right foot joins left?”

“Yep,” Grantaire nods. “This is much easier than I thought it would be.”

“You thought I’d have more trouble?”

“Let’s just say feet coordination is not your strong suit.”

Enjolras opens his mouth and then closes it. He realizes he _is_ quite clumsy. “Just because I trip constantly doesn’t mean I have no coordination.”

“So, basically,” the dancer continues, “that’s pretty much the box step.”

“It can’t possibly be that simple.”

“Oh, no, that’s just half of the feet routine; you usually turn to the left on the second beat of each measure while doing the box step,” Grantaire dismisses. “And there’s still the posture, the arms, twirls, et cetera,” he sees Enjolras’ wide eyes and backtracks. “No, don’t worry; you just have to learn the box step without the rotations and how to handle your arms.”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Do you want to try the full box?”

“Sure,” Enjolras takes a step back and waits for Grantaire to do the same.

“You ready?” Enjolras nods, so Grantaire starts counting. He keeps pace while the both of them sway side by side, without music, in the middle of Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s messy living room. Grantaire stops counting after a while, but they both continue with the steps.

After a full two minutes, the both of them move more swiftly. Silently, Grantaire, still dancing, walks so he’s in front of Enjolras and facing him. The man regards him curiously, but says nothing. Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ right forearm, which hangs lax and lifeless at his side – that’s when Enjolras stops dancing.

“What are you doing?”

“Teaching,” he replies simply, his hand still around Enjolras’ right forearm. He raises it so he can take the hand and place it on his shoulder blade from under his arm. When it’s clear that Enjolras won’t move his hand, he gingerly takes the blond’s left hand in his and raises their joined hands so they’re at eye level. Then he slowly raises his own left arm and carefully places his hand just under Enjolras’ shoulder. “You lead,” he tries to say in a normal voice, but it cracks a little and he has to clear his throat.

Enjolras stares at Grantaire. They’re not overly close – Grantaire made sure there weren’t contact points other than their hands and their arms –, but he still feels too warm, and his palms have started to sweat. He realizes he’s still staring at Grantaire, who is staring right back, and so blinks and looks down at his feet. He moves his left foot forward, and Grantaire is right there, moving his right foot backwards.

It’s that simple, unpracticed little move that makes Enjolras realize how beautiful waltzing is.

He has to pause completely. He takes a deep breath and moves his right foot inwards and to the right and watches mesmerized as Grantaire’s left foot slides backwards and to the left in time with him. After a few seconds, he moves again and joins his feet along with his dancing partner. He takes another deep breath and starts repeating the pattern backwards, Grantaire following seamlessly. Enjolras keeps his eyes trained on his feet. They have no rhythm, they only move when Enjolras feels ready to move, and they are completely silent.

After a few rounds, and with a bit of incentive by Grantaire, they find a comfortable rhythm. One _, two, three;_ one _, two, three;_ one _, two, three;_ one _, two, three_. They start moving more naturally once the tempo stabilizes, and even if there’s no music, the music of the tempo can be heard in the air. Enjolras realizes just how fluently they’re moving and grins, looking up – which proves to be a big mistake, because Grantaire is looking at him, and his eyes are so blue.

He loses his rhythm and trips. Grantaire steadies him, and then takes two steps back, looking away. It’s that simple, gone-wrong little move that makes Enjolras realize how lovely he finds Grantaire’s eyes.

“Well, that was… very good,” Grantaire mumbles, “um.”

“Yeah,” he replies dazedly.

“For a first waltz, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think you’ll need many lessons more.”

“Yeah.” _What?_ , Enjolras thinks as he follows the man walking about with his eyes.

“You can, like, practice the steps at home, so you can do it more naturally,” Grantaire starts scratching the back of his head.

“Right.”

“And, like, maybe practice with me again in like, two weeks? Or something like that. If you’d like.”

“Sure.”

“Just so you don’t, like, forget where to put your hands, and stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“So, um, there you go. Waltzing 101.”

“Huh.”

“And, er, you can see yourself out?”

“Yeah. Sure. Yes. I’ll just, um,” Enjolras grabs his bag and walks to the door, where he hesitates. He looks at Grantaire again, who’s rubbing his eyes with his back to the door. “I really enjoyed this,” he says, before leaving and closing the door behind him as softly as he did when he first came in.

He looks at his watch and figures that if he runs, he’ll make it to the bus station on time. But he doesn’t feel like running.

 

 

He opens the door, which is always unlocked, and the first thing he sees is Combeferre sucking the living shit out of Courfeyrac’s face on the loveseat. Usually, he would complain until they stopped what they’re doing, but at the moment he feels… weird; so he ignores them and goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge and scans its contents quickly. A disgusting wet sound comes from the living room, and Enjolras doesn’t even grimace. He grabs an apple and doesn’t bother washing it. He then walks into the living room and flops down on the couch as he takes a bite, and watches the lovers who, clearly, haven’t noticed his presence.

He wonders what’s wrong with himself as he follows the path Courfeyrac’s hands trail down Combeferre’s back. He wonders why he hasn’t stopped them – why he’s actually curious about what his friends are doing, when usually he would be screeching like an upside-down scared cat gripping the roof. He takes another bite off his apple and grabs today’s newspaper, which someone, probably Courfeyrac, left on the coffee table. A minute later, there’s the sound of shifting, of breath catching, and of sucking once again. Enjolras risks a glance over the paper and sees that, indeed, they’ve moved so that Courfeyrac’s head rests on the arm rest closest to Enjolras, with Combeferre completely draped over him, legs intertwined. Their heads move in sync, like the kiss is a perfectly choreographed dance, and Courf’s hands lovingly caressing his partner’s nape and stubble make it seem like it’s also adoration. Combeferre slithered his right leg between the other’s and gently rubbed the now obvious erection that Enjolras hadn’t seen before; Courfeyrac makes a very soft noise. That’s when he gets scared.

“Please don’t stain the couch.”

“Holy _shit!_ ” Courfeyrac knocks his forehead on Combeferre’s and they both groan in pain. Enjolras observes impassively from his seat. Combeferre, with a hand rubbing his forehead, sends him an annoyed glare that says ‘what the hell, Enjolras?’ more clearly than words would; he then returns to his post as Courfeyrac’s blanket, and hides his face in the crook of the other’s neck. Courfeyrac covers his eyes with his right forearm, and places his other hand on Combeferre’s back “What the fuck, Enjolras?”

“What?”

“Um, how long have you been there, maybe? And seriously, _what the fuck, Enjolras_ ; we were busy. So busy. You have ruined it.”

“Yeah, Enjolras, really,” grumbled Combeferre from Courf’s neck.

“Well, nobody told you to do it here. You have a room, which has a door that closes and locks.”

“ _Fuck_ , Enjolras.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Courf,” Enjolras rolls his eyes and picks up the paper again.

“He has a point, actually,” Combeferre says, still with the annoyed tone. “Fucking hell,” he breathes out.

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. “It not like you won’t continue with it tonight. Or like you don’t do it almost daily.”

Nobody spoke for a brief moment. “Something’s wrong with you. Did Grantaire break you? Oh, shit, he’s totally a bad influence on you; this was a bad idea.”

“How was it, then?” Combeferre asked, his bad mood apparently forgotten.

“Peachy.”

“Oh, c’mon,” pushed Courf. Enjolras glanced up briefly.

“He’s a good teacher. I think I did quite good. He said it wouldn’t be necessary to meet frequently.”

“He’d say that, the bitch. Too lazy.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s really not that late,” Courfeyrac frowns, “and you can’t be that tired.”

“Early night.”

“It’s not even eight o’clock yet,” notes Combeferre.

“I’m going to read, then.” He stands up and closes the door to his room once he’s inside. He stops at a clear patch of floor and tries the steps he learned, and smiles as he finds that he still can do it. Then he remembers how exhilarating it felt dancing with Grantaire, and how pleasantly surprised he was with his company, and how open he was, and how blue his eyes were. He stops smiling and he throws himself onto the bed. He remembers how easy and natural it felt to be with him, and then realizes how much he wants to repeat the experience. If he could throw himself onto the bed again, he would. Four hours later, he’s still struggling to fall asleep.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre do end up finishing what they started, but they make sure not to stain the couch.


	2. On Obliviousness and Schubert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A full month goes by with Grantaire and Courfeyrac constantly crashing Combeferre and Enjolras' apartment. Enjolras is anxious with partial exams, and Grantaire helps him with some stress relief. Enjolras realizes what his confusing feelings towards the dancer are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure, unadulterated, raw fluff. Sillies and dancings and kissings. I leave you links to the pieces they use in here, so those of you who like the full scenery have it easier.  
> The waltz R and Tonya dance - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmCnQDUSO4I  
> Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Waltz - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Sb8WCPjPDs  
> Tchaikovsky's Trepak - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TmQjhwsPRDE  
> Schubert's Serenade - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpA0l2WB86E  
> This is also longer than I would've liked, but I couldn't cut it, so here it is.

One month, one more lesson at Grantaire’s, and a lot of individual practice sessions later, the only reason Enjolras is coming out of the apartment is to go to class. The season of partial exams had begun. The only things he did was shutting himself in his room, going to the bathroom, eat, study, revise, do homework, and sit silently on the sofa looking like a petrified mantis, staring at nothing. It was driving Combeferre up the wall.

“Enjolras,” he knocks on the door to his friend’s room. “Enjolras, open the door.”

“What is it?”

“Open the door, now.”

“Why? I’m busy.”

“We’re going suit shopping.”

“ _What?_ ”

“What are you planning on wearing for our wedding?” Combeferre asks pointedly.

“A suit.”

“Do you have a suit?”

“Yes.”

“I know for a fact that you don’t, so open the door, and get ready. Ten minutes.”

A groan can be heard from inside the room, then some muffled steps, and finally, Enjolras opens the door, looking very much worse for wear: his blue shirt is rumpled and hangs off on one shoulder, his hair looks like a rats nest that witnessed a vicious murder, he has a three-day stubble, and his eyes are outlined with dark purple bags. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he pads into the bathroom.

“When was the last time you slept?” his friend asks worriedly, following him. Enjolras takes off his shirt slowly as if it pains him, and Combeferre can count his vertebrae when he bends down to pick up a towel. “And when was the last time you ate?”

“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” Enjolras ignores him and closes the door in his face before turning on the water and stripping the rest of his clothes. He sits on the toilet, resting his head on his hands and breathes deeply. His mind assaults him immediately. He’s tired; he’s slept very little in the last three days, but really, he can’t be blamed. It’s only partials, but he’s still exhausted; his hands are stiff, he can’t remember what it felt to not have a headache, and he can’t remember the last time his shoulders didn’t feel tense. The last time he’d eaten was the previous night, and it had been a loaded cup of bitter, black, unsweetened disgusting coffee and chocolate chips. Tomorrow is his Economy exam. He’s not ready for it. There’s a History paper pending that’s he’s been putting off for days. He hasn’t been called back by the organization that offered to sponsor the fundraising the Amis are planning. He remembers he has a headache and suddenly that headache multiplies tenfold. The bathroom is filling with steam and the heat is starting to feel oppressing.

He stands up and gets under the spray, exhaling heavily when the water hit his shoulders. He lets his head fall back, and soon he’s leaning completely on the cold tiles, eyes closed, doing nothing.

“Enjolras, you’ve been in there fifteen minutes,” Combeferre calls from outside and he silently thanks the man for not knocking. “Did you just get in?” he doesn’t answer; he’s too tired for that crap. “Okay, relax and do whatever in there, but know that you _are_ getting out of this place today, regardless of your exam tomorrow.” Fuck you, Combeferre. “I’m hoping that’s exclusively Courf’s job.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Sorry.”

“Just take your damn beauty bath,” he says exasperated, and Enjolras can hear the moment he stomps away. Enjolras lazily takes his shampoo, struggles to pop it open, and has no strength to squeeze the product into his hand. He sighs and tips his head back again. He hears noise outside the bathroom. Someone probably deemed it a good time for visits. _Well, fuck them_ , he thought. _Fuck, fuck fucking, fucking…_

“Fuck, fucker, fuck, fucking fuck, fuck, fuck –”

“What exactly are you doing in there, Apollo?” Grantaire’s unmistakable voice says from outside. Enjolras is startled and drops the shampoo, cursing. “You really must be stressed out,” he sounds sincere. _No shit_. “Your aversion to swearing is as strong as your obsession with revising. Which is why we’re going out tonight.”

The universe is doing its best at ruining his life, and it’s succeeding. “Fuck off, Grantaire,” he growls, and squirts way too much shampoo directly on his head, and rubs with excessive force; he washes his face with the same foam, and rubs different body parts without much care. He rinses his hair and turns off the water, doesn’t bother drying his sopping hair or dripping body, wraps a towel around his waist, and storms out of the bathroom and into his room, where he shuts himself in once more. Grantaire stares at the closed door from where he’s been reclining on the wall adjacent to the bathroom door, and to his credit, his lips are only very slightly parted.

“What a drama queen,” Courfeyrac says from the floor in front of the sofa, where his books are already spread all over the coffee table and they’d just gotten here not five minutes ago – their internet stopped working and Courfeyrac was freaking out because he couldn’t study. Combeferre was sitting on the sofa, lazily stroking his fingers through Courf’s curls while reading something on his laptop.

“He’s having a hard time with Economy,” grants the Psychology major.

“Fifty bucks says he locked himself in there and he’s back to studying.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least.”

“I meant what I said, ey,” Grantaire says, finally snapping out of the spell. “I can take him out somewhere, even if it’s just a diner where he can glare and shout.”

“Really, you can do it?” Combeferre looks up at him with a Bambi expression in his face. “Because I don’t think I want to stand through it.” Grantaire nods and ‘Ferre’s Bambi expression is now ‘Harry Potter at Diagon Alley for the first time’. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

The man shrugs and goes to the kitchen to grab a knife. “You two can get some time alone like that.”

“I love you, man,” Courfeyrac mumbles.

“Yeah, I’m the bestest best man ever,” he replies distractedly as he walks to Enjolras’ room with purpose.

“Whoa, man, what are you doing walking to Enjolras with a knife?”

“Breaking in.” He starts to maneuver with the lock as quietly as he can, until he can hear a soft click. He sets the knife on the floor and opens the door. Immediately, Enjolras looks up from the bed like a deer in caught in the headlights and his grip on the book tightens. He’s wearing nothing but some white boxers. His position is laughably vulnerable.

“Enjolras.”

“Grantaire.”

“ _Enjolras_ , close the book.”

“No.” Enjolras protests. Grantaire dives. “ _No!_ ”

Grantaire is on the bed on all fours, trying to reach Enjolras’ right hand, which is gripping the book. The other man curls up as far away from him as he can, holding the book above. He looks genuinely scared. Grantaire takes ahold of his right ankle and pulls.

“No! Grantaire, stop!” he struggles and tries to free his leg, but he’s weak and tired. There’s really not much he can do, so he gives up and lets it happen. Grantaire manages to pull his entire mass towards him so that Enjolras slides down the bed. Enjolras stubbornly gets the book as far from reach as he can, so really, it’s his fault, when he later thinks about it (and think about it he _does_ ). Grantaire frees his right ankle but instead pins his bony hip to the mattress, and uses this as leverage to climb up and trap Enjolras’ left arm with his left hand, before stretching up and taking the book with his right hand – to be fair, Enjolras’ grip on it had slackened – so Grantaire’s stretched shirt and straining neck are directly above Enjolras’ face. He freezes. His mind helpfully supplies him with the fact that, yes, Grantaire indeed climbed all over him and is now straddling his hips.

Grantaire carefully gets off the bed and turns around to place the book on the other side of the room, and actively hides his blush. Enjolras is still wide-eyed and doesn’t speak. When the brunet is sure he’s not blushing anymore, he turns to Enjolras with a pointed look, hands on his hips. He doesn’t have to say anything.

“I’m coming, I’m coming…” Enjolras gives in, sits up and looks for some shirt or whatever is lying on the floor. Grantaire is trying not to stare, really, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get to see Enjolras with stubble or in his boxers again, so he discreetly glances up every few seconds. “I have no clean shirts,” Enjolras says after a few moments.

“You must have one clean shirt.”

“Combeferre forgets to do the laundry, so I have to do it and I haven’t had the time lately.”

“With lately you mean…”

“More than a week.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. “Still, I know you can’t run out of shirts in one week; you’re fooling no one. There must be something in the closet.” Enjolras gets up and to the closet before Grantaire can, and grabs a blue button-up. He grabs some random dark jeans from the floor and puts them on, pointedly looking away. Grantaire throws the towel to him and it lands on his head. “Your hair is wet.”

Enjolras ignores him and looks for his gel.

Over the course of last month, Enjolras and Grantaire spent a lot of time together, given that Courfeyrac visits constantly and makes him tag along. In those times, Grantaire learns that Enjolras is allergic to many rodents, Enjolras learns that Grantaire plays piano and guitar, _and_ sings; he also learns that he _likes_ Grantaire, quite a lot, for that matter, and that his eyes are prettier in person than in his mind.

They’re not the closest of friends, and sometimes they’ll still be hesitant, but for the most part, they’re comfortable and at ease around each other, and it’s much simpler than it should be.

Except when Enjolras lets his mind wonder and then it’s not that simple. He’s… confused. He’s not sure what comes over him sometimes, and he doesn’t like to dwell on it, so, for the majority of the time, he manages to ignore it.

He runs the gel through his hair with his fingers, not really caring about the final result.

“Wallet.”

The blond quietly grabs his wallet and shoves it in his back pocket. He looks at Grantaire expectantly. “And where are we going, exactly?”

“We are going to get dinner, you are going to eat a lot, and then we’re doing whatever will distract you enough so you won’t want to come back here in two days. Only then will I bring you back.”

“I like Combeferre more,” he says without bite.

“You’re doing it, anyways, so protesting does no good,” he walks out of the bedroom, Enjolras on his heels. “We’re leaving now, guys.”

“Alright.”

“Have fun!”

“Don’t be so hard on him, Enjolras.”

“Bring back something for me.”

“No.” Grantaire holds the door open and Enjolras goes trough, shoulders slumped. The Art student keeps glancing at him every now and then on their way to Enjolras’ car. Enjolras somehow manages not to flush, but it is kind of getting to him.

“Is there something on my face?” he finally blurts out when he gets into the car. Grantaire, knowing that he’s been caught, doesn’t bother with discretion anymore and stares openly.

“I’ve never seen you with stubble. I didn’t even know you could _grow_ stubble.”

Enjolras glares and starts the car, but he’s definitely blushing now. “Of course I grow stubble,” he rakes his nails across his cheeks self-consciously and scrunches up his nose at the noise, “I just don’t like it.” He gets out of the parking lot and into the street.

 _It’s really hot_. “It doesn’t look bad.”

“Right.” He shifts in his seat. “So, where are we going?”

“Denny’s.”

“Denny’s? It’s seven in the afternoon.”

“Denny’s doesn’t only serve breakfast, Enjolras,” he says, patronizing.

“I know that,” he defends himself. They look at each other from the corner of their eyes and make accidental eye contact. They giggle. “They’re famous for their breakfasts, though; I’m not sure about their dinners.”

“Where do you want to go, then, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Princess.” Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Wherever. Applebee’s.”

“The family restaurant? The new neighborhood? That’s so romantic,” Grantaire rolls his eyes right back at him. “To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t say Olive Garden.”

“You are a very difficult person to deal with.”

“And you’re a princess. You can’t even try to deny it. You’re Merida. Oh, god, you’re literally a modern-day version of Merida.”

“Let’s just go to Denny’s,” Enjolras sighs.

“Who do you think I am? I’m thinking Jack Frost.”

“Because he’s an annoying, obnoxious, irresponsible, reckless, attention-seeking immortal whose only point is to ruin the others’ plans?” he provides, dryly.

“Excuse me, that was really uncalled for,” Grantaire turns to him. “I’m not even offended, but you do not talk about Jack Frost like that.”

“Why are we even talking about Disney characters?”

“Jack Frost is DreamWorks.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s all over technicalities all the time.”

“Three minutes, just three minutes, three minutes…” Enjolras mutters to himself repeatedly.

“This evening is going to be so much fun.”

And in that moment, Enjolras wonders how he ever even thought he wouldn’t be too averse to spending time with Grantaire. Then the man turns to him with that wide, unashamed grin, and the thought goes flying out of his mind.

 

During the course of dinner, their feet bump five times and only two of them are accidental, though neither of them would admit to it; they stare at each other constantly, but both of them are too oblivious to notice; Enjolras’ head stops hurting and he feels less tired.

Enjolras notices a lot of things. He notices how Grantaire’s hands constantly move when he talks, even more so when he’s recounting experiences; he notices how he smiles all the time, but sometimes the smile will shift so that somehow, you can tell it apart from the default. He notices how he tips his head to the side and plays with his woven bracelets when he’s listening, and how he is genuinely interested in what Enjolras tells him about himself. He notices how his throat moves when he swallows and how kind he is to the waiter. He notices the waiter mistaking his kindness for flirting and he notices her flirting back. He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t like it.

When the waiter comes with the check and tries to hand it to Grantaire with a wide smile (a smile that Grantaire dismisses), Enjolras takes it from her with a sour smile and looks at Grantaire intently, who looks at him bemusedly. The waiter just stands there, waiting.

“I’m paying,” Enjolras says as he grabs his wallet and takes out his card.

“No, I’m paying,” Grantaire argues and takes out his wallet as well.

“I’m paying. I needed to get out and you got me out. I’m repaying you.”

“Come on, you didn’t even want to come.”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I did.”

“Then take this as your birthday prese –”

Enjolras puts his hands over Grantaire’s, which startles both men equally, but thankfully shuts Grantaire up. “R, let me.” That shuts him up even more.

“Okay.”

The smile Enjolras gives the girl along with the check and his card is cold and smug. The girl just rolls her eyes amusedly and walks away. They’re in the parking lot soon after.

“Where to?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire looks up at him, surprised.

“You don’t want to go home yet?”

“Not particularly, no,” he smiles, but then remembers all he has to do and grimaces; his head immediately starts protesting – hard. Grantaire notices and jumps to the rescue.

“Nope, no. Stop doing that face. I’m driving; here, give me the keys,” he unlocks the car and gets in. “Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.”

Enjolras gets into the passenger seat. “We’re not really going shopping, are we?”

“No, doofus, that was a reference. You’re doing the suit shopping with Combeferre.”

He sighs. His head throbs when Grantaire turns on the car and goes on reverse. “Does everybody know every singular detail of my life?”

“Not all of them,” he grants and enters the street. “It’s not your fault. Combeferre tells Courfeyrac everything and Courfeyrac tells everyone everything.”

“Oh, fuck me.”

Grantaire looks at him for a moment before looking back to the road. “Well, there’s something I never thought I’d hear you say.”

Enjolras, the dear, takes a few seconds to get it, but then he chuckles. “I mean –”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, before looking serious again. “You know, you really need to learn how to relax when you need to.”

“It’s very difficult to acknowledge that you need to relax.”

“Step number one: denial.”

“You’re making it sound like I have a problem.”

“You _do_ have a problem.” They’re silent for a few minutes. Both are pleased to find that it’s completely comfortable. Enjolras’ headache is once again receding.

“Where are we going?”

“I honestly haven’t the slightest. I’m just driving.” Enjolras thinks of the waste of gas that ‘just driving’ is, but he doesn’t think he really cares right now. He yawns and realizes just how tired he is. Grantaire glances at him and smiles softly. “Wanna go home?”

“Not yet.”

“Good, because I don’t care,” he says. “Though I’ll have to change directions…” Enjolras groans when Grantaire does a U-turn, but says nothing. He has an idea.

“R…”

“Yes?” Grantaire prompts and his pulse flutters. He can count in one hand the amount of times Enjolras has called him ‘R’, and two of those have been today. Granted, the man is half unconscious right now, but still.

“Do you think we could practice tomorrow?” _What?_ , Grantaire thinks. “I know it’s a Friday, but I think I liked dancing, and I’d like to do it again.”

 _Oh._ He blushes a little. “Um, yeah, sure,” he says. “Although you don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

“I always know what I’m saying.”

“Lieees,” he grins. “Call me tomorrow if you still want to, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No prob.”

They get to the apartment quickly enough after that to find the couple curled up on the big sofa, Courfeyrac snoring softly against Combeferre’s chest, who’s looking at his sleeping face tenderly and running his fingers through the curls, like he always seems to be doing. He looks up when the best men walk in and his smile widens when he sees how tired and content Enjolras looks. Grantaire winks at him and Combeferre nods in gratitude. The exchange goes by unnoticed by the blond undead.

“Hi, ‘Ferre. Goodnight. Goodnight, Grantaire. Thank you. Bye.”

“Night. Sleep well.”

“Yeah.” He disappears to his room, but thankfully leaves the door open as he goes about his pre-bed routine, assuring the pair that he will not be studying anymore.

“How did he do?” asked Combeferre quietly. Grantaire shrugged.

“It was easier and more enjoyable than I expected.” He fidgets. Combeferre is staring at him. “What?”

“You should take him out more often. On a date.”

“Let’s not get into this.”

“No, wait. He enjoys it. He might be reluctant at first, but he always comes home happy,” he continues. “Last week I even heard him humming when he came home.”

“He couldn’t like me like that, ‘Ferre,” he sighs tiredly. “Look, I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“And you’re doing a remarkable good job at it,” he points out. “He sincerely enjoys your company. That’s why I’m telling you, you should give it a try.”

“Goodnight, Combeferre. See you tomorrow.” Combeferre sighs as Grantaire turns around and closes the door behind him.

“Bye.”

Enjolras comes back from brushing his teeth. “Is Grantaire gone?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, okay.” He walks into his bedroom and drops onto his bed like he does every time he spends time with Grantaire. He falls asleep almost immediately. He doesn’t call Grantaire the next day.

 

 

Grantaire, however, calls him one week later.

“Hello?” Enjolras picks up.

“Enjolras! Do you feel like dancing today?” Grantaire says excitedly. He has to wait a few seconds for a response.

“Um, sure.” He hears shuffling from the other side of the line. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a friend, Tonya, she has a dancing studio. She says we can use it anytime!”

“Um… your place was just fine,” Enjolras replies and Grantaire scoffs. “I mean, I don’t think more space is necessary.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve never been to a dancing studio. Just today, if you want to, but please, _please_ let’s go.”

“You really want to go?”

“Desperately, to be honest. And I’m just calling you because Azelma doesn’t want to dance with me.”

Enjolras shifts. “Alright, I guess. Where is it?”

“You’ll do it?” Grantaire’s grip on his phone strengthens. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_. It’s been so long since I danced in an actual dance studio. You’re gonna love it. I promise. I guarantee it.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

“And we can play music in there!”

“I thought you said music wasn’t necessary?”

“It’s a dance studio. One does not simply go to a dance studio and not dance to music.”

“So, where is it?” Enjolras asks for the second time. Grantaire’s excitement over this opportunity is palpable, and it makes him smile, even if he’s a little hesitant.

“I can pick you up, if you’d like? Or we can just meet somewhere, or whatever. You choose. You get everything you want today for doing this.”

“Where are you?”

“In the dance studio.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m going there, then. Now, _where_ is it?”

“On the corner of 7th and Gauss Avenue; you won’t miss it. The studio is called Coppelia. And if someone tries to stop you, just tell them you’re with me and they’ll let you in. When can you come?”

“Right now, I suppose,” he replies as he looks at his watch. “How long have you been there?”

“Two hours. I actually came to visit Tonya but then she told me to stay and we’ve been practicing, and it’s awesome. It’s been so long since I danced…” Enjolras smiles. “Okay, see you soon. Bye!” Grantaire hangs up suddenly and Enjolras is still wondering what the hell just happened. Who is he to refuse, though; he’d asked Grantaire if they could practice again sometime this week. He doesn’t know why, exactly, when Grantaire had already told him he’s good for the wedding.

He changes into looser clothes and grabs his keys.

“Where are you going?” Combeferre asks. He’s doing an assignment, because Combeferre doesn’t study for exams. Enjolras resents him for that. He was studying himself for his last exam when Grantaire called.

“Grantaire. Dancing. Apparently, he got a dancing studio to himself.”

“And he called you first?” he raises his eyebrows.

“Azelma, then me.” Combeferre hums in response before turning back to his work. “See you later, ‘Ferre.”

“Good luck.”

 

Enjolras has no problem finding the dancing studio, or getting in. When he sees the room Grantaire is in, he stops short in his tracks. He’s waltzing with a woman in a ballet uniform. The dance isn’t anything like he’d taught Enjolras: they turn as they glide across the room and the steps are much smaller and quicker, and neither of them is stepping on their heels. It also looks more graceful than it has any right to be. He just stands there, outside the room, looking through the glass wall.

The waltz, because even he knows it’s a waltz, is considerably fast and sounds obscure, but it’s beautiful. Everything about the dance is beautiful. Grantaire is grinning, and his graceful partner looks like she’s floating. The woman spots him and smiles. She says something to Grantaire, who turns his head towards him and beams. He guides the woman into a turn and cuts the dance short. He walks towards the entrance, where Enjolras is still frozen in place.

“Hi! Glad you could make it,” he says and takes Enjolras by his left forearm. “Enjolras, this is Tonya Antipova, the owner of this studio and childhood friend.”

Enjolras offers his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m not Russian; my father is.”

“Right.”

“Tonya’s a brilliant dancer; she can dance just about everything, and she was kind enough to let us use her dance studio.”

“It’s nothing,” she says. “Just make sure to lock every single door you encounter on your way out.”

“No problem. Keep in touch? I want to meet little Lara.”

“Oh, you’ll love her. She likes to play around on the piano. Maybe you could help her with that,” she smiles. “I’ll see you around, Grantaire. Nice meeting you, Enjolras.” She grabs three heavy-looking big bags and sees her way out.

He looks around the big room. The wall opposite to the glass wall is a giant mirror with a ballet barre, which makes the room look even larger. The wall to his left is painted a dark plum, where there’s an intimidating collection of CDs and various dancing props. The wall to his right is a window. The room is illuminated by soft artificial light, despite of the light getting in from the window. The floors are of hard wood, but he notices it’s not slippery.

He motions to Tonya, who’s closing the door to the studio. “I feel inadequate now,” he says and Grantaire laughs.

“Nah, don’t worry; she’s been dancing all her life.”

“It looked beautiful. And the music was beautiful. Who was it?”

“Shostakovich.”

Enjolras blinks. “Why did I even ask?” Grantaire giggles. “I only know Mozart and Vivaldi.”

“And Strauss.”

“Strauss?”

“He composed The Blue Danube,” he winks and Enjolras blushes, remembering what had happened the last time he’d mentioned The Blue Danube. Grantaire just laughs and starts skipping around and humming. Enjolras follows him with his eyes.

“You’re awfully excited today.”

“Come on, let’s dance,” Grantaire says. “When was the last time you practiced?”

“Er… a week ago.”

“But you remember the box step?” Enjolras shrugs and does it. Grantaire snorts. “I may be awfully excited, but you’re awfully stiff. You were studying when I called you, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Great; this’ll take your mind off things. You’re gonna have to relax first. You wanna skip around?”

“Do I want to _what?_ ”

“Skip. Like Little Red Riding Hood skipping through the forest.”

“No.”

“I don’t care. I’ll put on some music to make it less unbearable.”

“No, Grantaire, I’m not going to do that, music or not.”

“Come on, have a little fun. No shame in being silly for a few minutes,” Grantaire quips as he browses through the collection of music. “Look! They have The Blue Danube!” Enjolras groans. “Or do you prefer the Sleeping Beauty? Yes, yes; Sleeping Beauty is more adequate,” he grins at him. “This will be fun.” He puts on the CD and starts giggling when the intro starts playing loudly. Enjolras is rigid and completely unamused. They both stare at each other for about twenty seconds before Grantaire walks to Enjolras slowly, like a feline stalking his prey.

“Grantaire…”

“Come on, you know you’ll love it.” Grantaire ignores him and hugs him tightly. Enjolras is, to put it somehow, extremely startled, and he doesn’t know what to do, so he does nothing. Grantaire keeps hugging him for a while, swaying them from side to side, and when he deems it, he breaks the hug.

“Shock to the system. You’ll be much more malleable now,” he grins wickedly and takes Enjolras’ left hand in his right and starts tugging him forward. “Come, come on. You can do it.”

Enjolras doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but his legs start moving forward. Grantaire starts leading them around the classroom in a full circle. He raises his eyebrows when the dancer starts, in fact, skipping, swinging their clasped hands, and singing along to the melody. He trails behind him. He looks at the mirror and what he says makes him snort. They truly look pathetic, in a hilarious sort of way.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, chuckling.

“Getting you to relax,” Grantaire looks back at him with a gleeful grin, and Enjolras can’t help but smile back exasperatedly. “But you need to start skipping.”

“I know this song.”

“Duh, everybody knows this piece. Now, come on, I’ve been dragging you for, like, two minutes. Help me out.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and just starts walking a bit faster, but so does Grantaire. The blond hurries his step again, and Grantaire quickens his skipping. He finally understands what Grantaire is doing and sighs in defeat. He starts leveraging his steps more so he can jump closer to Grantaire. The music is making him smile despite his best efforts to be annoyed. He instinctually starts skipping to the tempo of the piece and catches up with Grantaire, who beams at him. They’re both skipping around the room with their swinging hands held tight to the Sleeping Beauty Waltz. The piece finishes soon after and another, much more fast-paced piece starts immediately.

Enjolras starts laughing, which unknowingly gives more swing to his skipping. Grantaire looks delighted.

“I swear this is from the Nutcracker.”

“That’s Tchaikovsky’s Trepak, I’ll have you know.”

“But it’s from the Nutcracker.”

“It is.” Enjolras laughs again, skipping happily, and soon he’s the one dragging Grantaire along. The brunet can’t help but marvel at Enjolras. They both take turns snorting at each other. This piece is over much sooner than the last one, and another one starts, but Enjolras doesn’t get the chance to recognize it, because Grantaire leads him to the center of the classroom.

“Wanna learn some awesome waltzing, or do you want to stick to the basics?”

“I think I’d like to learn more,” Enjolras is flushed and breathing quickly.

“My amazing relaxation method works, it seems,” he grins. Enjolras bites his lip and Grantaire looks down only for a moment.

“It was… liberating.”

“Told you,” he winks. “So, you know, in the box step, what you do on ‘two’?” Enjolras nods. “Good. So what you’re gonna do is, you’re gonna turn counter-clockwise when you do that step.”

“Whoa, what?”

Grantaire puts his feet together. He moves his left foot forwards and Enjolras nods; then, as he moves his right foot inwards and to the right, he turns a quarter of a turn to his left; then he joins his left foot to his right.

“And that’s half the box,” he says. “Get it?”

“I think so,” he frowns. “And the other half?”

Grantaire moves his right foot back normally; as he moves his left foot inwards and to the left, he turns another quarter of a turn to his left; then he joins his right foot to his left.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, easy enough.”

“Wanna try it with me?”

Enjolras smiles widely. “Yes.” Grantaire tries not to blush. _He has no idea how nice that sounds._ As if his smile and his willingness wasn’t enough, he’s also the one who makes the move to get close. He places his right hand on Grantaire’s shoulder blade from under his arm and takes his right hand in his. Grantaire takes a bit more to react and put his left hand over Enjolras’ bicep. They’re both breathing slowly.

“So,” Enjolras says, and this time he doesn’t look down to his feet, like their last two practice sessions, “left foot forward.”

“Then you turn to your left as you move your right foot.”

He does so, and then joins his feet. He does the second half of the box with no problem, and Grantaire following flawlessly. He looks around. “We’ve moved.”

Grantaire laughs. “That’s what the turn does.”

“Genius.”

“If we do another box, we’ll be back to where we began.”

“I figured,” he says simply before he moves his left foot forwards and starts the box again.

They do it a few more times, each time less paused. Enjolras, relaxed as he is, moves naturally and not as rigidly as he did the past times. He also looks like he’s enjoying it, smiling slightly. Grantaire provides a tempo.

“Now try doing your steps wider,” Grantaire suggests, “so we’ll use more of the classroom and it looks more… swift-y.” Enjolras struggles at first, but after a few seconds gets the hang of it. Grantaire grins at him. “You’re surprisingly good.”

“Thanks.”

“No, like, _surprisingly_ good. You’re a natural. This is not as easy as you think it is.”

Enjolras blushes. “You teach it so that it’s pretty easy.”

“This music is crap.”

“I thought you liked Tchaikovsky?”

“So you know it’s Tchaikovsky?” Grantaire smirks.

“Only because I’m pretty sure that’s also from the Nutcracker.”

“It is,” he chuckles. “I do like him, I’m just saying the style doesn’t fit.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed the music was still playing until you mentioned it.”

“You’re supposed to listen to the music when you waltz, and stop thinking about the actual waltzing.”

“Well, we’re having a conversation and we’re not paying attention to the waltzing.”

“You’re not thinking about what you’re doing anymore?”

“Not really,” Enjolras admits and frowns when Grantaire all but stops dancing and walks away. Before he can ask why, Grantaire explains.

“I’m looking for some slow waltzes. Maybe we can dance to actual music now, and not just a tempo.”

Enjolras looks out the window and sees it’s already dark; he doesn’t know what time it is. The light isn’t bright, like it was when he got in, but medium-strength. “Can I help?” he walks over to the stack of CDs. “Forget it, I have no idea what you’re looking for.”

“There’s an ABBA compilation album in here.”

Enjolras snorts. “But I’m pretty sure that’s not what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t know,” jokes Grantaire, “Dancing Queen is good, and Mamma Mia is not really bad.”

“Hmm, look, a piece I actually know,” murmurs Enjolras, looking at a CD tracklist.

“Which one?”

“Serenade, by Schubert,” says Enjolras, smiling softly. “Mum used to play it all the time,” he looks at Grantaire, who is looking back at him. “What?”

“That’s perfect. Give it here.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a waltz.”

“It’s waltz-able,” he says and takes the CD from him. He puts it in the player and waits for it to start. When it does, they both stay quiet for a while.

“That’s… romantic.”

“To be fair, it _is_ called Serenade.”                       

“I mean, the arrangement is very romantic,” explains Enjolras. “But I guess it’s good to waltz to.”

“It’s perfect to waltz to,” Grantaire gets up, restarts the piece, and leads Enjolras back to the center of the room. “It’s perfectly slow.” They get into position, and with the music, suddenly it’s much more intimate. They both try to get past it. They start dancing a measure after the melody begins. It’s a bit slower than how they were doing before, but it’s still slightly more difficult, because they have a strict tempo to adhere to. The silence stretches on for a little bit too long.

“This is fucking awkward.”

“It is,” Enjolras agrees, “and we’ve been dancing for less than a minute.”

Grantaire chuckles softly and slides the hand on Enjolras arm further up. “Let’s just finish this.” Enjolras responds to Grantaire’s movement instinctually. He gets slightly closer to his partner and shifts his right hand also further up the shoulder blade. They keep dancing in silence for another minute, relaxed, and enjoying the movement. Enjolras looks at the mirror and likes what he sees. He catches Grantaire’s gaze in the mirror and they both smile.

The music starts to sound more melancholic than before, and Enjolras’ steps widen, causing them to use more space than before. They’re dancing in wide circles in complete harmony with the music, and their feet in sync. They turn their heads slightly so they’re looking at each other, measuring, testing. It’s not uncomfortable anymore. The piece gets slightly faster for a moment, but it’s over a minute later and they separate. The fact that they want to do it again goes unspoken.

“Mind if I lead for a bit?” asks Grantaire.

“Not at all,” he replies. “Will I have to change something?”

“Just reverse our arm positions, and you’ll have to start with the bottom half of the box.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. Grantaire restarts the piece and walks back to Enjolras. The blond automatically takes Grantaire’s left hand in his right, and places his left hand under the other man’s shoulder. Grantaire pulls him closer than before and softly places his hand around Enjolras’ waist. He frowns.

“Doesn’t it go –”

“This is easier,” he says, and starts leading the dance. Enjolras instantly feels the difference: Grantaire’s leading is smoother; his steps are wider, but more graceful. Enjolras goes along with it and tries to imitate him. He feels like he’s floating – he’s pretty sure that he’s floating, just like Tonya had been. He pulls Grantaire closer still. His own breath hitches and he hears the other man inhale deeply. They dance in silence for a while.

“You alright?” Grantaire murmurs. He nods in response, not trusting his voice. He feels Grantaire’s hand sliding further up his back before he’s tipped back slightly. Enjolras’ left hand goes to Grantaire’s shoulder, where he grips slightly; his left foot leaves the ground. Grantaire helps him up, and then they’re back to waltzing again, but now all the way from his left shoulder to his hip, Enjolras is in contact with Grantaire’s right side; their cheeks rub slightly. He wonders what tango must be like, if he gets this exhilarated from waltzing.

Grantaire sways them to the sides before going back to the box, and he finds that he can go along with all the improvisations. He feels dizzy. The piece has less than a minute left, and he doesn’t want it to be over. He buries his head in Grantaire’s shoulder; the other man tenses slightly. He starts trailing his nose up his neck, slowly. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, so he closes his eyes. Grantaire’s grip on him tightens. They’re not dancing anymore, but Enjolras doesn’t notice.

“Enjolras?”

He can feel the deep vibrations in his own chest. He rubs their jaws together and noses at his cheek before brushing his lips against the other’s. They tingle, and he can’t stand the tingling, so he fixes it by kissing the pair of lips softly, small, tentative. He waits for a reaction, and his heart is pounding. He’s starting to think that maybe Grantaire didn’t feel it, so he chastely kisses him again to make his point, and this time, Grantaire does answer, equally chastely, equally small. It can hardly be called a kiss.

They kiss again, and again, and one more time, testing the waters, before Grantaire realizes that yes, this is happening. He makes a quiet noise at the back of his throat before he lets go of Enjolras’ right hand and instead cups Enjolras’ jaw tenderly, and tightening his arm around him. Enjolras’ hand on Grantaire’s shoulder travels to his neck, where it grips slightly, and his right hand slides up his chest, resting over his heart, which is pounding as hard as his own.

He stretches up and changes the angle, parting his lips and taking Grantaire’s bottom one between his. Grantaire retaliates, taking his top lip and sucking, biting, and running his tongue very softly against it. Enjolras gasps softly. Grantaire starts walking Enjolras backwards, and they keep kissing, until Enjolras’ back hits the barre and they break apart for only a second before coming back in again, this time less tentative, less sweet.

Their fronts are pushed together. Enjolras moves his hand from his chest to his back, and Grantaire does the opposite. They’re not sure who initiated it, but they find themselves sliding their tongues together, caressing; they’re breathing both deeply and harshly at the same time, and the music is still playing in the background, but neither of them notices. The only things they can hear are their heartbeats and their breaths, and distantly, the wet, suckling sounds, the barre occasionally groaning under the weight, the slide of hands on fabric.

Their embrace tightens, the kiss grows more heated; Enjolras slides his leg between Grantaire’s, and he involuntarily rocks his hips against the thigh so readily offered to him. Enjolras moans into his mouth. He finds the hem of Grantaire’s shirt and slides his fingers under it lightly, before growing bold and settling his right hand on his stomach and uses the other one to pull Grantaire’s curls. Grantaire closes any gap there might have been between them and holds Enjolras’ face in his hands. Enjolras wraps the leg between Grantaire’s on one of his calves. They exhale heavily and pull, pull at each other, trying to get closer. The need for oxygen is unavoidable now.

“Fuck,” Grantaire pants when he lifts his head and opens his eyes. Enjolras follows the kiss, but Grantaire’s hands on his face stop him. “May I ask what brought this on?”

Enjolras’ eyes snap open at Grantaire’s raspy voice, and the dancer has to do his best not to groan out loud at Enjolras’ dilated eyes and red lips. Enjolras swallows and takes a few steadying breaths before speaking honestly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t know I wanted to kiss you until I did,” Enjolras frowns imperceptibly, like he’s speaking to himself more than to Grantaire. He just stands there for a moment.

“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“But you’re fine with it?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire lets out a breathless laugh.

“Am I fine with it? You’re honestly asking _me_ if _I’m_ fine with it?” he looks at Enjolras incredulously.

“I don’t get it.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for years,” he smiles. “I’ve wanted this for years. You had no idea, did you?”

“Go on a date with me,” Enjolras blurts out. They’re both taking each other in. Enjolras’ hands have migrated to Grantaire’s shoulders; Grantaire’s hands are gripping Enjolras’ t-shirt. Grantaire joins their foreheads.

“Yeah,” he whispers as he searches Enjolras’ eyes. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

Enjolras moves in again and the music is still playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there isn't much Courf/Ferre in this one, but since the next one will hopefully have their god forsaken wedding day, that should be fixed. I really suggest you to listen to the pieces - or at least the one they dance in the end, because it's beautiful:D  
> Feedback is greatly appreciated!  
> (Also, sorry about 'Tonya Antipova' and her daughter Lara. I watched Dr. Zhivago yesterday and I just had to.)  
> This is unbetaed, so please let me know where the mistakes are so I can correct them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. English isn't my first language and I'm a terrible writer, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated.  
> Also, like I said, English isn't my first language, I have no beta, and I didn't even proof-read because I'm a bad writer. Please do let me know where the mistakes are so I can correct them.


End file.
